No Strings Attached
by ShakespeareFreak
Summary: Graverobber, they call him. It's his name, and his lifestyle. He has nothing else, living and working at his dark trade in self-imposed isolation. But it's funny how the addition of one person can change EVERYTHING.


**DISCLAIMER: **_Repo! The Genetic Opera _and all related characters, settings, and situations belong to Terrance Zdunich, Darren Smith, Twisted Pictures, and Lionsgate Films. This is a not-for-profit work. I am not making any money, nor am I attempting to negatively affect the market for any of the materials shown, or take proceeds from their creators, but rather to expand the fanbase and keep the pre-existing fanbase strong.

**RATING: **T (for dark themes, violence/gore, fantasy drug use, some coarse language, and suggestive adult themes)

Contains use of a fictional drug, prostitution, desecration of graves, implied violence, and the use of a single sexually suggestive slang term.

**SHIPS: **Graverobber x Shilo Wallace

**CHARACTERS FEATURED: **Graverobber, Shilo Wallace, Scalpel Sluts

* * *

**No Strings Attached**

This is how he lives, the man with the dark pools for eyes.

He has no name. His parents once gave a name to a pink screaming baby, as clean and new as a freshly minted coin, but now he is filthy—filthy body, filthy mind, filthy soul; and a hundred years have passed in each of the 32 calendars since then; and that name is lost. He thinks he knows why the baby screamed… it was in protest at being brought into such a hateful world. No matter. His name now is his trade, and his trade is what he is.

He peddles his drug in a back alley, hiding in the shadows. His druggie disciples flock around him, fawning and pawing and mewling pathetically, no more than stray cats begging for a morsel of rotting fish. Disease-ridden and full of borrowed organs, they press their half-naked bodies against his legs, his chest, his groin. They pay however they can; always more than they can afford, never more than what they wish.

Women (and sometimes men) wrap their starving bodies around his own, thrust their tongues down his throat, steal the daylight, borrow the night, until morning. The sex is quick and clean as surgery: he parts their legs like a cool steel scalpel parting skin and muscle. For the man's body, it is brief excursion into a furnace of passion, feeling for a moment flesh against flesh, warmth, connection. But always his mind is cold and detached, somewhere above the flames. In the end, it's just a sweaty business transaction: spunk for glowing blue liquid.

He shields his face beneath a mask of paint. The eyeliner, the pale white powder, they are constants, until even he cannot tell where the mask ends and he begins.

He sleeps in a dumpster scrawled with graffiti, huddled in the ink-stained newspapers and used syringes. It's fitting: he is the world's trash, the dirt swept out of society's sight, discarded by the scalpel-happy culture.

He slips stealthily into the graveyard, among the cold impartial dead; the rotting corpses that cannot judge him his only true companions, his only peers. He is cold as they.

And this is how he lives, the man with the dark hair shot with multicolored streaks like dirty discarded ribbons.

Detached and cynical, he laughs at the world's flaws while capitalizing on them. He chose this path, chose to be reviled. He is spat upon by the respectable men and women who walk down the street with hearts and livers and spinal columns they can never afford. And inside he chuckles darkly, knowing that each of them will one day face the Repo Man, and then he'll fill another Zydrate vial from their carcass. The globe is populated with artificially beautiful people who preen and screw each other's brains out and go to the Genetic Opera every night, thinking they have forever… and just beneath their feet lie mass graves squirming with maggots. The whole world is like the scent of heady perfume, so sweet until you realize that it masks the rotten stink of decay. He cannot choose to not be a part of this new superficial world, but he'll choose his fate within its limits. He doesn't fight the system; he uses it to his own advantage. He lives and works in isolation, rather than depend upon the false connections GeneCo's world thrives on.

No strings attached.

Only suddenly, there's this girl. This girl with eyes as black as night, with skin as pale as moonlight. And for some reason he cannot fathom, when she looks at him, with eyes that are not glassy with drugs and surgery, but clear as a spring morning, and deep as the sea, he feels… like she's different.

And suddenly there are strings attached.

All sorts of them.


End file.
